


Summoning Angels

by Bakerstreethound



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Benedict Cumberbatch - Freeform, F/M, PBS Masterpiece, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Victorian Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:48:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27054451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bakerstreethound/pseuds/Bakerstreethound
Summary: Four years your husband, Sherlock Holmes has been dead. Four years since you left 221B behind to deal with your grief. Today is just another day suffering the absence of his loss.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Reader, Sherlock Holmes & You
Comments: 3
Kudos: 60





	Summoning Angels

**Author's Note:**

> I watched Sleepy Hollow (1999) and was inspired to write a story featuring Victorian Era Holmes. It is sort of morbid & gloomy, but I really enjoyed writing this piece. I really wanted to draw in to the dark and gloomy eeriness of the atmosphere my reader is in. I hope you all enjoy!

Four years. Four years and your beloved detective was gone. This time for good, no more magic tricks, no more bartering with the forces of hell to bring him back. Your eyes dripped tears each one falling, pain, and agony flitting in your chest. The numbing ache could never be gone. 

You lifted your head from the solemn bow, craning back your neck to let it pop. The heavy skirts of your mourning gown swished across the dust clad floor. Dust doesn’t matter when your heart and soul are gone. No one had seen you in years, nor could they find you.

You locked up the flat of 221B condemning it to the fires of hell. Mrs. Hudson, poor dear you had no idea what had become of her. Probably perished and gone now. Your fingers ached as you scraped together what meager sources of tea you could find. 

You certainly weren’t left poor, but you couldn’t bear to use what sources he saved for you, couldn’t even begin to process where to begin. Some friends couldn’t understand nor did they care. 

How are you not over him?

Bless his soul he was such an ass. 

Someone better will care for him now. 

They would never fucking understand any of it. The man you loved so deeply, had given your very heart and soul to. You lived a half-life without him if you could even call it that. The ache of his absence was as present as the first day you knew he was gone. For good. But you still found yourself dreaming, hearing him in your head as clearly as if he were sitting in the armchair beside you. 

Sighing, you gazed out the window of your cottage, watching the windmill in the field turning in the breeze. 

“You would’ve loved it today, Sherlock. It was foggy and so many murderers are running rampant down the streets in this practically abandoned community.” 

Pray, continue. You swore you heard his voice rumble in your ear, sending an all too familiar shudder of desire and warmth down your back. You wished you could embrace him, feel his arms wrapping around your waist before he took you, again and again, claiming you as his own. 

“There’s this one murderer though, no one can catch. They say he’s a ghost, an apparition from the gates of hell doing the bidding of his master. He severs the limbs of his victim’s bodies, most of them know for doing monstrous deeds. Just yesterday, the Constable cited another murder of the head nurse at the hospital. Ridiculous if you ask me. She was missing her hands and feet. Severed clean off and cauterized once the blow fell upon her. But what does it matter, I’ll be fine. No one wants to talk to the deranged widow of a detective.”

You let your thoughts wander, thinking yourself mad for talking aloud. Sometimes it helped you collect your thoughts. Sherlock was the one who kept you sane. You both kept the other sane and away from harm. Your gaze drifted from outside to the mantlepiece where you’d laid one of the few relics you brought from 221B with you. 

The violin, his Stradivarius, cost a fortune, gifted to him by an anonymous client. He’d let you use it, fairing instead his usual one, the wood still gleamed as it did what felt like centuries ago. You kept that one hidden safe in your room, but the Strad beckoned to you somehow pulling you to it with some unknown, unspoken force. 

A deep hunger ached inside, as soon as you had it in your arms, you felt awake for the first time in years. A song, once so buried deep, composed by him for you filled your brain as you drew the bow across the string, letting your feet guide you in some sort of haunting dance, phantom notes swirling around you enveloping you in their wake as you treaded outside.

Leaves dance as you continued your song, stopping by the spot where you sprinkled Sherlock’s remains. The ending of the song lingered on, bow gliding into one final solemn note, melancholy, full of hope, releasing the sorrow and guilt you’d harbored all those years. 

“Beautiful.” 

The voice shot to your heart, tears threatening to fall. Surely, I’m dreaming, you thought to yourself, lowering your instrument, tucking the violin under your right arm, bow locked in your fist. 

“I told you, I would never leave you. I’m here. Turn around.” The deep baritone resonated through your ears. You wished you could wrap yourself in its warm embrace night after night.

The figure in the mist before you turned, long coat rustling in the breeze, his piercing, calculated gaze fixed upon you. 

“Sherlock.” 

His lips quirked into the faintest of smiles.

You jumped into his embrace, pulling him in for a searing kiss. “My love. You came back.”

“It was time.” 

He kissed you softly, passionately for a moment before wrapping an arm around your waist, guiding you down the path of fallen leaves before you. Never to look back. 

Never to look back at your flesh, frozen from the bitter cold, grasping onto the violin that brought you your redemption, your salvation. One would think you’d fallen into a deep sleep, leaves surrounding your head like a goddess of autumn, just begging to be awoken from her eternal slumber. 

Oh, but you were far away, back home in the arms of your beloved once more. At last.


End file.
